


You Don't Remember It (Yet)

by Swingbeard



Series: A Humble Light [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: One Shot, Psychological Drama, Shadowbringers Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:13:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22690810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Swingbeard/pseuds/Swingbeard
Summary: In which the Warrior of Light has a conversation with a mortal foe and an "old friend" moments from death.
Series: A Humble Light [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1636837
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	You Don't Remember It (Yet)

**Author's Note:**

> Contains spoilers for Patch 5.0, or "Shadowbringers".

He doesn’t remember it all well. 

Thoughts drift and fade. 

The white-on-white tears at the fabric of the soul.

It feels… 

Torn apart. Shattered. Frustratingly so. 

Otolin tries to piece it all together in this nothingness from the moment his eyes open. He looks out upon it all, and just sees nothing. The world around him is so white that it begins to become dark, a natural progression of things, of his journey to this point.

But he doesn’t remember it all very well.

He tries to grab it, tries to reach it with callused and scarred fingers, the rough pads pushing through sterile but breathable air. Nothing takes. Nothing gives. 

“You didn’t have to do this, you know.”

That voice. 

It’s something to hold onto, and Otolin latches onto it with ease. He turns, hands collapsing to his sides and pressing against the frayed coat tossed over his broad form before facing the source of the sound. 

“Really. You could have just given up… or given in. Actually. The word _both_ applies here as well.”

That smile. Those shoulders. They shift up and down in a shrug before gloved hands unfold, palms facing whatever is above them, for there is no sky.

There is only the white-on-white on all sides.

Then there isn’t.

There is a table, almost nondescript except for the way the grain of the wood seems to shift when not looking at it directly. A pair of chairs unravel into existence, and a chessboard follows, pieces of black and white spinning and twirling until they stop at a moment’s notice. 

The figure’s right hand unfolds to gesture toward the table. “Won’t you take a seat, Otolin?”

He starts to remember just a bit more. 

One of his hands slowly forms into a fist, fingers pressing into his palm with enough force to draw blood that doesn’t come, and his lips quirk into a frown before a steady answer spills from him. 

“I don’t sit with murderers.”

Emet-Selch scoffs, one hand reaching up to press against his chest as the whole of his body leans forward just a bit. “Then what does that make you?”

A fair-

No, it isn’t.

It isn’t a fair question in the slightest.

“We’ve… we’ve killed for different reasons, you and I…” Otolin responds, taking a single step forward. It gives him confidence, gives him a way to navigate this space. He follows with another step.

And then one more.

“Bah! You still don’t understand then… for all that I’ve tried to teach you, for all that-” Emet-Selch begins, watching Otolin come closer.

Closer.

Then they both stop. 

Otolin’s vision blurs and tears, and he ducks his head away, barely hearing the words that come from the Ascian across the way. 

Something calls to him. An old feeling. 

Emet-Selch smiles in that cheshire way only he can. It’s a shit-eating grin that piles it on, aggravating in each and every way. “Now, now… be careful. You’re oh so close to becoming- no, no, well… you were already a monster before.” 

Otolin looks back up at that, the stone-faced facade he’s so carefully constructing falling away. He takes another step forward, and then another. 

“You’d just be a different shade. Literally. Figuratively. Fabulous, isn’t it?” Emet-Selch jokes, hands unfolding again, that trademark shrug falling and rising. 

Hollow and dead laughter fills the star.

Then the white-on-white-on-white overcomes Otolin.

He can’t move.

Can’t function.

Feels-

Now he’s sitting in that chair, and Emet-Selch sits across from him. The Ascian leans forward, a hand gliding underneath his chin, and gives him a lazy, almost cat-like look. 

Otolin tries to move, but can’t. 

He’s… bound to the spot. 

His hands rest on the table, fingers splayed, and the chessboard lays before him.

But there’s no white. No white-on-white.

He feels like _himself_ again. 

“You were _so_ close there,” Emet-Selch remarks with a little laugh, almost coy. He keeps leaning forward, staring at the man across from him. “But I wanted to pull you back for just a few moments longer, though here it may feel like an absolute eternity.”

“You… you stopped it…” Otolin breathes, just staring forward. 

“Staved it off for now…” The Ascian corrects himself, rolling his eyes and shaking his head. “You’re not off the hook. Your… god can’t save you here, for you are so _full_ of her blessing. This is Her fault. Her undoing. Oh, by the way, your turn.”

The chessboard calls. 

Otolin stares, and then looks to the pieces. He reaches out with a hand, steadily, shakily, and notices how pale they look, how his fingers seem like marble. It’s a familiar sight, but it’s so different than the usual metallic he’s used to, the thing he was trained for. 

He takes a piece and moves it gently, looking back up to the man across from him. 

Is Emet-Selch a man?

Is he a being?

What are Ascians? 

No. That isn’t the right question. It’s a fair one, but not particularly what he wants. 

_Who_ are they?

That’s the question. 

It’s easier to remember now.

The city. The end of the world. No. The end of the universe. The hooded figures with their masks shuffling through a simulation, away from the chaos they had forged with their own thoughts and prayers. 

Their minds had meddled. 

“Huh…”

Emet-Selch’s voice brings Otolin back to the present. 

“That’s actually a rather good move,” he quips with a little laugh, looking up at Otolin. “Truly. Even as Her power grasps at you, threatening to turn you back into what you were once forged to be, your mind still works rather coherently. It’s admirable, really. But… well, I told you…”

“Told me what exactly?” Otolin inquires, trying to get more. To learn more. To answer the questions churning through his mind.

“That you and your… ‘friends’ weren’t worthy of inheriting the star,” Emet-Selch answers, head shifting lazily to the other side. “I mean, you saw them. They fell one by one. Not strong enough. What takes them twelve moves…”

His hand drifts over a pawn.

“... it takes me one." 

And then to the king piece. 

It _looks_ like a mask worn by one of the Ascians. 

Otolin recognizes it easily as Emet-Selch’s mark. It’s amazing how clearly he can think at this moment, and he decides to capitalize on it, to keep things drawn out, to…

To stave this off. 

“Why are you doing this?”

It’s a simple question.

“Making you _my_ monster?” Emet-Selch responds with a question of his own.

“No… no...” Otolin quickly cuts back, shaking his head. “Why… why are you keeping me from that end?”

“I… well, you wouldn’t remember…” Emet-Selch sighs, shaking his head. He looks away for a moment, and the smile on his features fades for a brief beat before returning. In the moment though, it’s wistful. Wanting. Wandering. 

Too many emotions, too short of a time. 

“Then help me remember…?” 

It’s an attempt, a small and quiet thing that Otolin tosses out. 

He can’t rely on his fists. His feet. The skills he’s learned, the knowledge of an opponent’s weak point, how to shatter a bone with a quick application of pressure and aether.

There are no swords to stop, and no magical spells to evade.

There is only the chessboard and borrowed time. 

Emet-Selch looks back to him with a smile. “Tell me your story. I’ve followed it, but I want to hear it in your words. Your thoughts. Only yours. In these final moments, we have all the time in the world, Otolin.”

A sigh.

Relief. 

“Why?” Otolin asks in a careful tone, a hand settling back on the table. His right heel lifts and then taps against the white with a careful _click_. 

His response draws another laugh from the Ascian, who tilts back in his chair just a tad and closes his eyes, reaching up with a hand to shadow his face. When he leans forward, lines of harsh red energy criss-cross over his features to form that symbol.

The mark.

“Because…” Emet-Selch begins to answer with a smile that threatens to leave his features, to slide off of his high cheekbones. He pauses, obviously for dramatic effect, and then sighs before returning to the rest of his answer.

“... I know you don’t remember it all that well.”

Then he reaches for a chess piece. 

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time posting something on AO3, and ties back into some ideas and themes I've been exploring through some other writing for a WoL AU for my character in FFXIV. 
> 
> To anyone who reads this, thank you so much. It really means a ton!


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